Judgement
by Photogirl1890
Summary: Life in the Maquis involves difficult choices. Pre-season 1. Note: I've used the Torres and Chakotay character tags for this piece (because FFN doesn't provide me with the option to tag with 'Maquis'), but, so as not to be misleading, I wish to point out that, although featured, they are not the central characters in this piece.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Star Trek belongs to Paramount/CBS. No copyright infringement is intended.

 **Summary:** Life in the Maquis involves difficult choices. Pre-season 1. Note: I've used the Torres and Chakotay character tags for this piece (because FFN doesn't provide me with the option to tag with 'Maquis'), but, so as not to be misleading, I wish to point out that, although featured, they are not the central characters in this story.

 **Rating** : Rated T. Contains violence, depictions of injury, and mild language.

 **A/N:** I started working on this earlier in the summer. Although I'd just about finished writing it before the VAMB Secret Summer exchange kicked off, it's taken me until now to make the finishing touches. My most grateful thanks to **Delwin** for her plentiful assistance along the way.

This piece is a prequel of sorts to some of my previous Maquis-focused works, particularly "Rockfall", "Closure", and "Alive."

* * *

 **Judgement**

"And you're sure this will work?"

"As sure as I can be without testing it against the most current models of Cardassian military tricorders."

Meyer's question does not indicate a lack of faith in Torres's ingenuity. But, if the success of his imminent mission is to depend on the efficacy of the contents of a small, unremarkable-looking backpack, he wants the engineer's reassurances. In plenty.

He lifts the pack from where it sits on top of an unmarked equipment crate, slips his arms through the straps to test the pack's weight on his shoulders. Satisfied, he removes it, peering then into the unzipped top pocket at the various cylinders bound up within: thoron generators wired up to heavy duty power cells. "But, in all the simulations, it works like a dream, you say?" he asks.

"If it didn't then we wouldn't be having this conversation. I'd still be perfecting it."

Meyer's grown accustomed to Torres's bluntness in the short time she's been with the Maquis – he appreciates it, even. It's refreshing to deal with someone so forthright: Torres tells it like it is, with no bullshit. Not like Seska, who always wants to stop and chat, who always inflicts on him a hundred irrelevant questions when he seeks her advice on some technical matter. And not like the other engineers, some of whom seem to worship him like he's some kind of folk hero because he's a veteran – one of the founding members of the resistance group, in fact.

"So, for how long will the power cells last?" Meyer probes. He's alone with Torres in the _Val Jean_ 's cramped engineering bay. It's chow time, and most of the rest of the crew are filling their faces with whatever Roberto has rustled up from the last batch of edible supplies they took on board. Chakotay's supposed to be here, but he's been held up dealing with a disciplinary matter: Dalby and Yosa have come to blows again. Something to do with a blocked drain in the ship's one functioning water shower.

Torres checks a readout on the PADD in her hand. "Ten days. Give or take a few hours. I'm sorry I can't be more precise."

Ten days should be more than sufficient given the parameters of Meyer's mission. Long enough to hide him from the Cardassians while he's waiting for his moment to strike, and long enough to cover his withdrawal from the scene. If he's going to make it in one piece to the exfil site he'll need all the help he can get. There'll be fame and fortune for the Cardassian that can take him down.

"You know, I could rig up a second pack and come with you. If we did run into any problems, I could make modifications on the fly." The half-Klingon's tone bubbles with an enthusiasm yet to be broken by long months of combat – by what that does to any sane and decent person. She's endured a few skirmishes in space and has held up well, barring a few small incidents when she's lost her cool with comrades less adept than her at thinking on their feet. But she's been holed up here in engineering during the most frantic actions, focused on power redistribution, on damage control and directing repairs. She's not yet had to make that most transformative of decisions on her own – she's yet to pull the trigger on, or fire a torpedo at, or sink a blade into another sentient being. She's not been that last link between a life and a death, the pivot around which someone's fate has turned.

"I don't think so," Meyer tells her, offering what he hopes comes across as a polite and not a condescending smile. "It's better that I go alone. And you had a hard enough time scraping together the components for _one_ of these kits, didn't you?"

Torres narrows her eyes, hesitates before stating firmly, "I can handle myself out in the wilds if that's what you're worried about. I may not have your experience and I may not have graduated the Academy, but I did pay attention through two semesters of Survival Strategies."

Meyer shakes his head. He's tried to let her down gently, skirting around the most critical detail. But perhaps he should reciprocate her directness. "I don't doubt you could handle the trek from the transport point to the hide site – and make it back to the exfil site – but, no offense, Torres, you're not yet ready for this kind of mission."

Though she looks a little pissed off at that she doesn't press further. Chakotay would never approve of the idea anyway. Torres has already proven how invaluable she is to the Maquis cause. An engineer of her calibre would not be easily replaced. And it's obvious that Chakotay has taken a shine to the young woman on a personal level. He's spent far more time mentoring her than he has other recent recruits, so much so that Seska is beginning to get jealous. The Bajoran is another prime example of Chakotay's favouritism. She always seems to avoid the most perilous away missions. Meyer doesn't know if that's down to Chakotay's reluctance to assign her to them or if she's disinclined to go and he's letting her get her own way. It reflects badly on Chakotay, whatever the case may be.

Footsteps herald the arrival of the _Val Jean_ 's captain. Before he even opens his mouth it's obvious that Chakotay is not in the best of moods. Perhaps his meeting with the troublemakers went badly: he's cradling his right hand in his left, rubbing at the knuckles. Or perhaps it's just the fact that, though he knows that it's necessary, Chakotay is exceedingly uncomfortable with Meyer's assignment. Starfleet doesn't approve of assassinations, and enough of the Starfleet officer still survives within Chakotay to cloud the man's judgement. But Gul Zarak needs to die. Not only for what he's already done but for what he will do if given half a chance. What's more, his death will send the Cardassian insurgents in the DMZ an important message. It will hurt their morale. And taking Zarak out via a sniper wielding an old-fashioned projectile rifle should reduce the likelihood of collateral damage. Meyer's methodology is far more precise than the typical Maquis tactics of a planted bomb or a ship-to-ship missile. It makes no sense to Meyer that Chakotay won't blink at blowing a freighter full of weapons into atoms – killing of dozens of crewmen in the process – but he'll argue against the use of snipers to take out single high value and fully culpable targets.

"What have I missed?" Chakotay asks with a sigh. Torres fills him in on the technical specs of the generator rig. The contraption she's built is somewhat weighty, but it's still light enough to be carried by one person for a considerable amount of time. It will create a bubble around its bearer, rendering him or her invisible not only to tricorder scans but to old-fashioned thermographic cameras as well. The basic tech has been used to much success in hiding small groups of Maquis from Federation patrols on various border worlds. Extra power cells and a special carrying rig are not usually required, but Meyer will need to be transported down to the planet several days ahead of Gul Zarak's arrival there. The Cardassians on Anegria are bound to step up security the day before Zarak arrives. They know the Maquis are operating in the area. Meyer's success depends on the Cardassians underestimating how great that threat really is – on them underestimating the determination and audacity of the Maquis.

Chakotay seems somewhat placated – his scowl has morphed into a simple frown as he commends Torres for her work – and he turns to Meyer and asks, "Where's your rifle?"

Meyer reaches down to the dull grey case at his feet, opens it, and lifts out the separate components. He can assemble the rifle in seconds (he's been practising) and he does so now. It's an elegant weapon, a twenty-third-century Bajoran model that he's owned for many years. On his ranch on Iadara he'd used it for hunting sabre cats, ferocious feline predators that were picking off his cattle. That's what the rifle was designed for: pest control. It holds ten projectiles, has automatic wind speed and bullet drop compensation, and, thanks to the fully adjustable scope magnification, an operating range of between one hundred metres and two klicks. Meyer once took out a pair of sabre cats in quick succession, the second as it pawed at the prostrate and bloodied body of its mate. He's never fired this particular weapon against a humanoid before. He knows a shot to anywhere in the head or torso will be instantly lethal: he's seen the exit wounds it makes to more massive animals. Cardassians are much more fragile than sabre cats. Even a shot to a limb will result in major, probably fatal damage.

With Torres looking on with interest, Chakotay examines the assembled weapon, sighs again, and passes it back to Meyer. "Sahreen's making final preparations in the cargo bay. We'll beam the rulot seed over to the shuttle and you can be on your way in an hour."

The shuttle is an old Yridian model that Sahreen has commandeered from a salvage yard on Nivoch. Torres and Bendera have retrofitted it with two stolen Federation phaser banks. The banks are fitted behind retractable gun ports so as not to be obvious to a casual observer. Sahreen will use the shuttle to land Meyer one hundred klicks from Anegria's only settlement and trading post. Then Sahreen, posing as a Dhanaban grain merchant, will land at the settlement on the pretext of trading his wares. Faking a failure of the magnetic spindle bearings in the shuttle's reaction control assembly will give him a reason to linger for a couple of days. At the appropriate time – when Meyer breaks comm silence and calls for extraction – Sahreen will use the same shuttle for Meyer's retrieval. The _Val Jean_ will be hiding in an asteroid field in the next system over: undetectable from Anegria, but close enough to come quickly to Sahreen's aid should that be necessary.

"Is there any agricultural land on Anegria?" Torres asks.

Meyer smirks. "No, and that's a good thing. The Cardassians won't be remotely interested in buying the seed. If they do make an inspection of the cargo they won't check its actual quality, only that it does, in fact, consist of rulot seeds. It's diseased stock. Sahreen procured it from a sympathiser on Deep Space Nine. It gives him a reasonable explanation for visiting the system, but, as the spoonheads won't be interested in buying the seeds, they'll never know it's completely worthless."

When this part of the mission plan was drafted, Seska had suggested they should find Sahreen a cargo that the Cardassians _would_ wish to buy. And poison it. She'd soon backtracked, insisting to Chakotay that she'd spoken impulsively, that she'd never actually condone such an action. And Meyer wouldn't either, not just because pulling off such a scheme would be difficult, but because it would seem to cross a line.

The Bajoran shouldn't have even been present when Chakotay, Ayala, Sahreen and Meyer drafted out the mission plan. These things were supposed to be on a need to know basis, but she'd batted her eyelids and wheedled her way into the cramped captain's cabin, lounging on Chakotay's bed while the men perched on the edge of his desk or found a square of floor space to stand on.

Torres frowns. "And if the Cardassians refuse Sahreen permission to land? What if they want to know the exact details of his cargo before granting him clearance? They'll tell him they're not interested and send him on his way."

"If that happens, Sahreen will say he's in the market for some xupta resin," Meyer explains. "The spoonheads are sitting on tons of the stuff. Literally tons. They'll jump at the chance to make some latinum from it."

"Latinum that Sahreen won't have with him," Chakotay mutters.

Torres is keen to learn about Maquis strategy. That's admirable, but, in this instance, Meyer wishes she'd go back to tinkering with the engines. Reminding Chakotay of all the ways this mission could go awry is not helpful.

"He'll tell the Cardassians he'll come back with the latinum," Meyer says. They've already been through this a dozen times, running through all possible outcomes, making contingencies. Sahreen has the coolest head of anyone Meyer knows: so much so that it's eerie. He can talk his way out of or into most things with most people.

"So, we just have to hope that they don't object to him hanging around to fix the reaction control assembly," Torres says. "Or that they don't have some expert engineer on hand who offers to help."

Meyer starts disassembling his rifle, noting with a sigh that Chakotay is still glaring down at the weapon as if it's a flamethrower or a device to distribute biogenic toxins. "This is the Maquis, Torres," Meyer says. "And it's the best plan that we have."


	2. Chapter 2

Three days later he's lies prone in the mud where the Anegrian forest gives way to the edge of a cliff. For all the rig on his back may be effective against sensors, it won't hide him from a Cardassian staring precisely this way through hi-mag binoculars from the settlement in the valley below.

Meyer's dressed to blend in with his surroundings, his usual shipboard wear of wool and leathers exchanged for synthetic waterproof garb. His face is smeared with the same malodourous mud in which he's lying, mud which cakes his scalp and has dried to form scabs in his thinning hair. He's barely moved now for over three hours and his elbows are hurting like hell. Through the scope of his rifle he's watched a group of Cardassian males in civilian clothing sit feasting and drinking on long wooden tables outside the town's clapboard-covered tavern. He's seen a trio of Nausicaans, a Hupyrian, and two (judging by the refrigeration suits they were wearing) Breen exit an office block and walk casually into that tavern. Across the street, in the grounds of what used to be a Bajoran temple, a group of Cardassian children are ripping through the flower beds, tossing the uprooted plants onto a raging bonfire. It's springtime in this hemisphere. The temperature is mild today and the wind barely a whisper. There's no rustling of leaves and the smoke from the fire rises vertically. If weather conditions persist, Meyer's job will be made that much easier. The presence of the children, on the other hand, out in the open not sequestered away in their houses or a school – that presents a potential problem.

His head is pounding, his temples pressed tight in an invisible vice. The cordafin stimulant he's been taking to keep himself awake and alert tends to have that effect after three continuous days of dosing. When he gets back to the ship and the drug flushes out of his system he'll feel even worse for a while. After the last time he'd taken it – during the long mission to evict Cardassian settlers from Portas IX – he'd been left with blurred vision, palpitations, and a temper that a Klingon could be proud of. Torres, despite her heritage, has never come close to rivalling the bad attitude Meyer had exhibited after that venture. Meyer wonders what effect the drug might have on her physiology then decides he'd rather not find out.

Had the parameters of this mission been different, she would have made a good travelling companion, a solid and reliable presence with whom to share the responsibility. Meyer isn't nearly as self-assured as he'd have his comrades believe. Alone with his thoughts every unvoiced doubt begins to fester and swell. What if he can't make the shot? What if the intel is bad and Zarak doesn't even show? There's only so long Meyer can wait here, only so long Sahreen can hang around at what passes for a spaceport down in the valley. If he's even made it there.

The drop off had proceeded perfectly, with Meyer gone from the shuttle before the Cardassians on Anegria had hailed it for entering 'their' territory. Long range transportations with second rate equipment are always risky, but Meyer had materialised in one piece on the eastern bank of a shallow mountain stream, just below the snowline. He'd followed this young river – a convenient route marker and clean drinking water source – as it burbled and ricocheted its way along a rocky course, gradually descending in altitude. Staying behind the treeline but not so far into the forest that he'd had to fight his way through dense vegetation, Meyer had, nevertheless, found the terrain underfoot punishingly uneven. Progress towards the hide site had been slower than anticipated. As well as the regular cordafin shots, he's been burning through his supply of high energy ration bars. To make up for lost time his rest breaks had condensed in duration until he'd trekked the last twenty klicks with hardly a pause. Then, he'd crawled the last few metres on his stomach, one centimetre at a time, until the target zone was spread out before him, part of a vista that, in other circumstances, would appear attractively rustic and homely.

Looking up from the rifle's scope, Meyer watches as a small Cardassian spacecraft descends through the predominantly clear azure sky. The small landing pad for both atmospheric and spaceworthy craft is located behind the settlement's largest building: the blocky, whitewashed sawmill. Has Zarak come down on this ship? Or has he already transported to the surface? The Gul could be sitting at the bar in the town tavern right now, sipping kanar and stuffing his face with gandark meat while his minions take care of the parking.

According to the intel provided by another Maquis cell, Zarak will be here on vacation. A keen hunter, he is eager to sample what this recently acquired planet has to offer in that regard. Before this sector became a conflict zone – when this was still a Federation colony with a small but diverse multispecies population – hunting enthusiasts would come from sectors away to pit their wits against the indigenous carnivorous gandarks. The inhabitants of the settlement now are mostly Cardassian. There are no humans, Bajorans or Bolians anymore. When two transport ships full of heavily-armed Cardassian thugs landed here two seasons ago, the Cardassians gave those residents they took exception to – virtually every living soul – an hour to leave the planet. Some, inevitably, resisted. Rumour has it the Cardassians tied those individuals up and left them out in the forest as dinner for the indigenous predators.

And the wildlife is another potential problem for Meyer. So far he's seen no sign of any large animals with the exception of some menacing claw marks on one tree trunk, but they're out here, somewhere, in this vast coniferous forest. With his focus so fixed on the goings on in the valley, it's not impossible that some stealthy beast could sneak up from behind and attack him. O'Donnell – an ousted Anegrian colonist now inducted to the Maquis cause – had insisted that the animals were shy of humanoids, that they rarely came within ten klicks of the town and preferred to stay deeper in the forest. Meyer hopes that's true. Unlike the gandarks, with their two faces, one on each side of their bulbous heads, he can't have eyes everywhere at once.

The shuttle disappears behind the sawmill. Meyer looks back through his scope to see four Cardassians emerge from the tavern. This quartet wear black quasi-military uniforms. They carry themselves like trained soldiers and their disruptors are drawn. Meyer watches as they move along the main street, north towards the landing pad, noting that, while their weapons may be readied and their postures are erect, none of the four so much as turns a head to scan for threats that might be lurking. They simply march in arrogant pairs as if on a parade ground.

In the temple gardens the children flock to a summons from an adult female on the other side of the white picket fence that divides the temple from the street. Ignoring the open gateway, they clamber over the low barrier and into the thoroughfare, joined by adults trickling out of buildings here and there: from the tannery, the medical centre, and the schoolhouse. Meyer has the layout of the settlement's buildings committed to memory, that mental map derived from a written plan helpfully submitted by O'Donnell. Do the Cardassians really intend to simply take up where the humans, Bajorans, and Bolians left off? The annexation of this colony did not follow a scorched earth policy. The Cardassians have recently settled whole families here. It's as if they've stepped into the shoes of the timber cutters and the sawyers, the hunters and tanners, who wanted to live simply off the land, away from the artificiality of twenty-fourth-century life. Are these Cardassians here by choice? Is it a part of some social experiment instituted by their government? Aside from the four soldiers, the rest appear to be unarmed civilians, just going about their lives as if the violence of two seasons past had never happened – as if this had always been a Cardassian colony. And a welcoming committee for Zarak comprising of the town's entire population was not something that Meyer or any of those involved in the mission plan had anticipated.

Meyer shifts his gaze back to the soldiers. They pass through the wide open doors of the sawmill and out of view. Realising he's been holding his breath, Meyer releases it, replenishing his lungs with a gasp. He can feel a chill creeping up his back, ascending further to his neck and then to his face and scalp. Cardassians brandishing weapons have that effect on him, invoking something less volatile than rage but just as powerful.

He doesn't relish his role as a sniper. It's underhanded, not offering the target a fair flight. But then the Cardassians don't tend to opt for fairness, they don't play by any civilised rules. At first he fought them for justice not revenge. Now, after all he's seen and done, he fights because he hates them. He hates what they've forced him to become. He's starting to forget who he was before this started. Whatever the outcome of this war, for Meyer there's no going back to the way things were – to the person he once was. He's a killer now, a destroyer of lives – Cardassian lives, but lives nonetheless. He'll never feel sympathy for the soldiers and insurgents that he's killed nor for those enabling their murderous ways. But, no doubt, many of them had families that loved them. Not all of those Meyer has left bereaved will have been complicit in the crimes of their relatives and friends. If he digs deep enough, Meyer can feel pity for those innocents. For the Cardassian children deprived of their fathers. For the parents deprived of their sons.

Five minutes passes before a larger group of Cardassians emerges from the sawmill – a procession with an imposing leader dressed in a dark civilian suit. Meyer flicks his scope to maximum magnification, positively identifying Zarak by the horizontal scar that bisects the Gul's pallid forehead: a parting gift from an already condemned Bajoran resistance fighter at the Batal labour camp. Zarak is flanked by two of the black-clad soldiers Meyer had observed previously. Following behind are an older, long-legged female and three shorter figures. The other two soldiers bring up the rear. Meyer racks his brain, trying to recall all he knows of Zarak's domestic situation. The Gul is a family man, with a wife and three children. With his heart skipping a beat, Meyer consciously deepens his breathing, willing his body to calm. It's imperative he remain steady: the rifle can only compensate so much for jittery hands. There was no mention in the intel that the Gul was bringing his family. If Chakotay had known he'd never have given his blessing to the mission. Whatever the cost of letting Zarak live a little longer, the Maquis would have had to wait for another opportunity to take the Gul down.

But the mission is already in progress, and Chakotay isn't here.

Gul Zarak has to die.

If Meyer hates the Cardassians for shooting defenceless men in front of their families does that make him a hypocrite? He's about to do the same. The Gul in the wavering crosshairs of Meyer's rifle scope is unarmed. For the first time in his life, Meyer finds himself wishing that a Cardassian had a weapon. He looks for a dagger on Zarak's belt, for the telltale bulge of a small concealed disruptor under Zarak's clothing. Anything with which the Gul could, hypothetically, defend himself. But there's nothing other than those cold grey hands and jackbooted feet. Though they've done enough damage over the years.

The procession pauses outside the medical centre, met by a smartly dressed female who points and gestures, directing Zarak's gaze about the street then further afield, out to the gentle forested slopes of the valley's east and west walls, and south towards the cliff face. For a split second the Gul looks right towards Meyer, and, although Meyer knows the Gul cannot have seen him with those naked serpentine eyes, he still flinches, the crosshairs lurching from Zarak onto one of Zarak's offspring: the youngest, a boy of perhaps ten years old. In disgust, Meyer quickly readjusts to focus again on the boy's father: a legitimate and deserving target.

Meyer knows of Maquis fighters who go by code names – like Bolívar, De Gaulle, and Valkenburg – as if by doing so they can separate themselves into two different people, so that the person who fires a weapon at another sentient being can be put away when the fighting is done. But Meyer is fast realising it will never be over, not unless the Federation backtracks and steps in on the Maquis side. The Cardassians won't rest until all the territory they want is theirs. If, in obtaining that goal, they wipe out all of the DMZ colonists, some of whom are third or fourth generation descendants of the original settlers, then they're happy with that. And, if Meyer has to lose himself in an effort, however futile, to prevent that happening, then he'll do so. He couldn't live with himself if he doesn't. So, whether he fights on or walks away, his old self will be extinguished.

Zarak, tailed by his entourage, strolls onwards, reaching the row of children. He walks along the line, pausing to speak to some of them, passing others with a mere nod. Perhaps he's praising them for their part in the temple's desecration. Meyer is surprised it's taken the new occupiers this long to vandalise the garden. Maybe they've been saving it for a special occasion like today.

He has the Gul's torso in his crosshairs. There are no obstructions now (the soldiers have peeled off and are headed into the temple), but the children are too close for comfort. So Meyer waits and waits, ignoring his elbows as they beg for respite.

Some minutes later there's a commotion in the temple grounds. The soldiers have re-emerged from the building followed by others including two bright blue faces: male Bolians. In chains. Led like dogs by their Cardassian captors: two burly so-called civilians that Meyer is seeing for the first time. Zarak moves towards the group, putting distance between himself and the children, but, again, Meyer hesitates.

The Bolians are presented to Zarak. He appraises them as Meyer used to study cattle at the market. As far as Meyer can see the Bolians appear healthy. Their clothing is clean and intact, Meyer can't see any cuts or bruises on their faces. They walk tall despite their shiny metal shackles.

One of Zarak's men releases the restraints on the Bolians' hands and feet, gathers up the shackles and discards them. Zarak addresses the Bolians and points towards the forest to the east. The Bolians turn to each other but otherwise don't move. One of the soldiers fires a disruptor, scorching the sandy ground at the Bolians' feet. Now they do pick up their feet and start to run, eastwards, disappearing from view into an alleyway then reappearing, kicking up dust as they pass a row of neat log cabins then starting the ascent up the slope of the valley's east wall towards the forest above. One of the Bolians is uncharacteristically lithe and makes rapid progress. The second is more rotund, but he too is eventually consumed by the trees.

Meyer has the shot now, but he wants to observe a little longer in the hope of discerning more about what's going on. The Bolians must be two of the ousted colonists, held here as captives since the Cardassians took over. Are the rest of the colonists who resisted eviction imprisoned in the temple too? Clearly the rumours of their collective grisly demise were not wholly accurate.

Zarak is here to hunt…

The Gul and the tallest of his three children – a teenage son – are handed disruptors. One of the Nausicaans arrives leading a pair of Cardassian riding hounds, saddled and bridled, their mouths dripping foam about their feet. Turning his back towards Meyer, Zarak leans in close towards his wife. With no sense of urgency they touch foreheads and then she steps away, taking her younger children's hands and following one of the soldiers towards the tavern. Meyer cannot wait any longer. Zarak's intentions seem abundantly clear.

Meyer fires at Zarak aiming for the centre of his back. There's a whoosh of air but no crack as the thick silencer muffles the gunshot. Zarak crumples. His wife spins around, releases the children, and runs to her fallen husband's side. Meyer thinks he can hear screaming, but it could be an auditory illusion, wishful thinking. Meyer should pack up now and run. In seconds they'll work out which direction the shot came from. But, instead, he calmly lines up in his sights one of the officers who's rushing to Zarak's aid, fires again and takes him down. Another Cardassian approaches Zarak's wife and attempts to drag her from her husband's motionless body. Meyer shoots him in the back, he falls forwards onto Zarak's wife. Neither moves again. The townspeople scurry for cover, bundling the children along with them. Meyer fires once more, aiming for Zarak's teenage son, but, this time, he misses. What he's doing now goes well beyond the mission parameters, but he can justify his actions: he's doing this for the Bolians, to give them time to get further away from their would be pursuers.

Disruptor fire flashes from the remaining armed Cardassians. Meyer is well beyond a standard disruptor's range, but he won't be once the Cardassians head in this direction. There's plenty of cover for them on the shrub-laden ground between the bottom of Meyer's cliff and the town's perimeter. Time is of the essence if this is not to end up as a suicide mission. He shuffles backwards on his stomach, rolls sideways behind the shelter of a tree trunk. He quickly breaks down his rifle, stows it in his pack, and draws a phaser from his belt. Before he comms Sahreen he needs to gain some distance from the settlement. With any luck, Sahreen is well aware that it's time to ready the shuttle. Others may, in their panic, want to flee the scene, and Sahreen will not be taking passengers. After a final unaided glance towards the ensuing chaos – figures in miniature still in the process of organising themselves – Meyer turns in the direction from which he came and starts to run.


	3. Chapter 3

After hours lying down as still as a hibernating Denobulan, it takes longer than Meyer would like to build up speed. The increasing incline is also working against him requiring far more effort from his stiff muscles and joints than the reverse of the route did previously. At least if he trips running in this direction it should be a promptly curtailed fall rather than a plunging – potentially neck-breaking – tumble.

Despite their apparent disarray, it won't take long for the Cardassians to get a shuttle in the air. And they won't waste time scaling the cliff with pitons, carabiners and ropes. It's likely they'll use the transporter capabilities of their spacecraft to beam an armed group directly to Meyer's now abandoned hide site. From there, following Meyer's tracks will not be all that difficult for any soldier or hunter worth his salt. In the muddy terrain, Meyer's bootprints will remain visible for quite some time. He brushes past bushes and snaps off twigs as he flees, leaving another clear trail above ground level for those who know which signs to look for. Then there's a drop or two of spilled blood, lost from the pads of his fingertips as he stumbles and arrests his fall against a particularly abrasive tree trunk, and a scrap of fabric torn from his jacket when he snags it on the razor sharp leaves of a vine. But they'll only be able to find him with their inherent five senses. The thorium generators will make sure of that and it should give him enough of a chance to get away. But every second counts.

It's the sound of the rushing river that pulls him out of the psychological fog he's been hiding behind since the shootings, the sight of the crystal clear water that causes his mental clarity to return and forces home the extent of what he's just done – the potential repercussions. So much for a clean execution with no collateral damage. He's just created a platoon of alien-hating future recruits for the Cardassian military – and those brats were already off to a fine start thanks to their parentally-approved desecration of the temple. There was nothing in the intel to suggest that the Gul would be bringing his family, nor to indicate that such a large number of Cardassian children had been brought to live on the planet. Nothing. The bureaucrats that work for the Cardassian Union's propaganda machine will be rubbing their dirty hands in glee when they hear that an unarmed Cardassian 'war hero' – 'a devoted father' – taking a 'well-deserved vacation' with his family had been 'murdered in cold blood by a band of ruthless terrorists' in front of a crowd of 'innocent bystanders' including his own offspring. (They'll be careful not to disseminate the fact that a single Maquis gunman could cause so much carnage.) Cardassian paramilitary groups in the DMZ will find themselves in receipt of more weapons, more defensive technologies, and more logistical support than they have been already. The news may spread to Federation worlds – maybe even to Earth itself – swaying some closeted Maquis apologists into changing their views on the freedom fighting movement. Even a few of the Maquis themselves will find the episode completely inexcusable. Chakotay will be one of them. Meyer will be lucky to keep his place as one of the _Val Jean_ 's crew.

But Meyer did what he did for the Bolians. They're just two lives out of the thousands in the DMZ that need the Maquis's protection, but they're lives that Meyer had – maybe still has – the ability to defend directly. They might be dead already, but Meyer has confidence they're still breathing, still running for their lives in the forest to the east. The Cardassians will now be focusing all their efforts on finding the assassin who killed Zarak, Zarak's wife, and two of their defenders. As far as the Cardassians will be concerned, the pawns in Zarak's twisted game of hide and seek pose no threat: they'll run them down eventually.

Meyer steps down into the river. It's colder than he'd expected it to be, spiking cramp in his calves as the water sloshes about his knees. The material covering his legs may be impermeable, but the imperfect seal where his trousers meet his boots allows the water to seep in and chill him further. Though the river is merely half a dozen metres wide and doesn't deepen much in the middle, it's still a battle to reach the far bank, the deceptively powerful current only increasing his exertions. While he's wading, he is dangerously exposed, and, just to add insult to injury, the sun chooses just this moment to emerge from behind a cloud. Though grateful for its warmth, Meyer feels like he's been thrown under a spotlight, as if a giant eye in the sky is glaring down and passing judgement upon him. But it's wise to cross the river. It will, if his pursuers come on foot or with the riding hounds, throw a useful obstacle in Meyer's wake: Cardassian riding hounds have a well-known aversion to flowing water and their masters aren't exactly keen on getting cold.

When he reaches the bank, he climbs out, hobbling then into the cover of the trees before shaking himself down and ridding himself of as much residual water as possible. Then, pulling his communicator from his inside jacket pocket, he powers it on, sucks in a breath, and opens a channel to Sahreen.

There's an ear-splitting screech then a second of static and then nothing. The power light remains green, but a secondary icon is flashing amber then red then amber, over and over again. Meyer toggles the power switch. There's no noise this time but no lights come on either. He flicks open the battery cover, removes the small power pack from its housing then re-inserts it. Nothing.

Meyer is no engineer. He's never had much use for advanced technology. Iadara was a haven for neo-Luddites. There were more coal-fired ovens than replicators and people still communicated with friends in the next town over by handwritten letters. Meyer's made sure he knows how to recalibrate a phaser, that he knows how to operate the weapons systems and sensor grids of the Maquis ships on which he's served. But, when it comes to tinkering with the innards of many of the devices that most twenty-fourth-century Federation citizens take for granted, he's pretty much clueless. Torres would fix the damn thing in two seconds. But Torres isn't here.

A flock of squawking birds surges into the sky a few hundred metres to the north along the path on which he's travelled. With a fresh surge of adrenaline flooding into his bloodstream, Meyer stows the communicator and sets off due south once again.

He hurdles a narrow ditch, skidding as he lands but keeping his balance somehow. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpses a flying squirrel – or the local equivalent – gliding silently across a gap in the trees. A hundred metres on he's confronted with an impassable obstacle and has to pull up sharply: it's a fallen trunk that would dwarf the warp nacelles of a _Nova_ -class starship, smothered in a tangle of yellow creepers. There's a distant rumbling behind him now, low in pitch but with that pitch steadily increasing. It's the hum of an approaching engine, the exact type of which Meyer cannot discern. For the second time in two minutes he curses the fact he's come alone.

Backtracking, he cuts to the right, tearing his way through a thick but pliable mesh of spider webs that are slung like hammocks between some of the lower boughs of a cluster of silver-barked trees, looping around then to pass the exposed roots of the fallen behemoth. He checks the compass built in to his wrist chrono and ensures he is still heading due south. The trees thin out a little and he picks up speed once more, urged on by the continual sounds of the circling shuttle that he cannot see and by two new noises behind him – those of barking hounds and of harsh, guttural, Cardassian voices.

Slowing but not stopping, he takes out his communicator again. Nothing has changed in the time it's been back in his pocket. The barking and yelling get louder. Meyer can now make out individual Cardassian words and, although he can't translate literally much of what's being shouted, the threatening tone of the voices tells him enough. He figures he has less than a minute before they catch up to him. Wherever he hides on the ground the hounds will sniff him out. Climbing a tree is simply not an option: even if he had enough strength, he'd be spotted in an instant.

Meyer stops, crouches, and removes his backpack. Unzipping the main pocket, he reaches in and detaches the power cells from the thoron generators. Immediately, there's a shout of triumph from his pursuers. He picks the bag up again, slips the straps over his shoulders, and turns to face in the direction from where the Cardassians will arrive. Grabbing a smoke grenade from his belt, he pulls the pin out with his teeth and lobs it as far as he can throw it down the trail. It'll buy him another ten seconds.

He lifts his phaser to his temple, feels the cool metal press against his warm damp skin. Taking a few of them with him would be preferable, but he doesn't want to risk being taken prisoner. In these last few moments, it's occurred to him that the Cardassians might favour a show trial and subsequent public execution over killing him quickly in a combat situation. Even if they do decide to end his life right here, those riding hounds might be called upon to do the deed. The second he sees movement he'll pull the trigger – at least he hopes he will if the subconscious instinct for self-preservation that he'll have to override doesn't paralyse his finger at the critical instant.

But, as the grenade lands and proceeds to expel its noxious contents into the gloom, Meyer feels the first tingle of a transporter beam envelop him. It's fifty-fifty whether he'll re-materialise in the presence of Sahreen or in the aft compartment of a Cardassian shuttle, but his de-materialising brain thinks optimistic thoughts and the fingers on his free left hand are crossed tightly.

When the next thing that his eyes set their focus upon is the back of his mission partner's head, he nearly collapses to the floor in pure relief. Instead, he slumps against a bulkhead while taking a moment to regain his composure. He's not yet safe and this mission is still not over.


	4. Chapter 4

Sahreen doesn't turn from his console. His hands work furiously at the flight controls and the shuttle banks hard to starboard, a movement that the inertial dampeners should, but do not completely, compensate for.

Dropping his now redundant backpack to the floor, Meyer clambers queasily to the co-pilot's seat and makes use of the safety harness. "There are friendlies on the ground," he tells his comrade. "To the east of the settlement. Scan for lifesigns: two Bolians." He stretches out a hand to clap Sahreen on the shoulder. "And thank you. That was a close one."

"Scanning for Bolian lifesigns. And you're welcome."

"My communicator failed," Meyer explains, somewhat superfluously. He notes from the position of the sun that the shuttle is now travelling west as it ascends. Given the limitations of the transporter equipment on board, it will need to be reasonably close to the Bolians in order to rescue them, with a line of sight clear of any large geological formations.

"And your rifle?" Though not a man who regularly indulges in sarcasm, there's a definite edge to Sahreen's voice when, his gaze still fixed forwards, he adds, "Things didn't go as planned with that either, did they?" Perhaps he's finding it difficult to break character, still enacting the role of a Dhanaban grain merchant. Seska had certainly done excellent work with the dermal regenerator. The serrated edges to the helices of his overlarge ears, the fringes of skin hanging down from his jawbone, and ritual keloid cheek scars look fully authentic. Meyer is saved from the need to reply by weapons fire impacting with the shuttle's shields, shaking the small craft and its two occupants.

"Shields down to eighty percent," Sahreen intones, returning to impassivity as a second volley of phaser fire impacts upon the shuttle's stern. The shuttle climbs more steeply now, touching the lowest wisps of cloud before levelling out. "I've detected your Bolians, but, before we can lower shields to beam them aboard, we'll need to get rid of our pursuers."

The configuration of the displays at the co-pilot's console is unfamiliar to Meyer, but there's only one red dot following the icon that represents the Maquis shuttle on what purports to be the tactical screen. "Time to put that phaser bank Torres installed to the test then," he suggests, wondering how to access the firing controls.

"I'll handle that. See if you can lock on to the Bolians' coordinates and get ready to transport them on my mark."

The display in front of Meyer changes to a topographical map. There are two lifesigns flagged by unmoving blue squares, both around five hundred metres east-southeast of the settlement, a couple of dozen metres apart. One of the squares is faint and flickering.

As the Maquis shuttle is hit by another burst of fire from the pursuing Cardassians, Sahreen puts it into an unannounced nosedive. The cockpit windows are filled with the rapidly approaching greens and browns of the forest below. It's not until the computer bleeps out the first tones of its ground proximity warning that Sahreen pulls out of the precarious dive, pointing the shuttle due eastwards. The horizon reappears, with reassuring shades of azure and white once more visible above it.

Meyer peers across to the pilot's console where a tactical readout sits adjacent to a small screen marked 'Weapons Status'. The modified phaser bank installed by Torres and Bendera has been extracted from its hiding place within the ventral hull, but the firing rate reads zero. "Why don't you fire back?" Meyer presses.

The shuttle is rocked by another blast. Sahreen doesn't comment on the depletion of the shields this time. "I'm hoping to avoid any more deaths," he says evenly.

"As am I," Meyer snaps in reply. "Ours and the Bolians." On the map the flickering blue square changes to a triangle with a red exclamation mark inside. The other square is now moving, closing on the location of the first. "Shit. I think we're losing one of them." Expanding the scope of the sensors to detect Cardassian lifesigns on the ground, Meyer finds none in close proximity to the Bolians. As he'd predicted, the Cardassians are currently concerned only with chasing down the Maquis and, quite probably, are reviewing security measures at the settlement, bracing for secondary attacks.

Sahreen spins the shuttle through a further series of dizzying loops, rolls, and turns. When Meyer can bear to reopen his eyes he sees the stern of the Cardassian shuttle directly ahead. "They weren't expecting that," Sahreen declares, now unleashing a torrent of fire on their erstwhile pursuers, phasers at maximum burst rate all the while. "Targeting their thrusters."

Though the Cardassians jink and dart to evade a proportion of the onslaught, the stolen Federation weapons pack a punch. A couple of well-timed bursts are all that's required to dissipate the integrity of their shields, and it's not long before smoke starts seeping from both the starboard and port side thrusters. "That should do it." Sahreen says, and the Cardassian shuttle does indeed begin a controlled but speedy descent in the direction of the settlement.

Making yet another course change, Sahreen points the Maquis shuttle on a heading that will take it into the airspace immediately above the two Bolians. Meyer finally achieves a stable transporter lock and notifies the pilot.

Sahreen nods in acknowledgement. "Lowering shields in three, two, one, now."

"Initiating transport."

It's a long five seconds of flying with the shields down. One Cardassian shuttle might be incapacitated, but there are two more launching from the settlement. They'll be within firing range of the Maquis shuttle imminently.

But then the computer announces a successfully completed transport, an acknowledgement confirmed by a spine-chilling groan that sounds from the shuttle's aft compartment. Sahreen raises the shields, points the shuttle's nose up towards the as yet invisible stars, and diverts all remaining power to the thrusters. Meyer doesn't wait for the sky to give way to the blackness of space and for the thrusters to relinquish their task of propulsion to the impulse engines. He unbuckles his safety harness and, on painful legs, makes haste through the doorway that divides the cockpit from the cargo hold to the rear.


	5. Chapter 5

One Bolian has materialised on his feet. More precisely, he's bending forwards, gasping for breath, grasping his thighs with his thickset fingers. His bald blue head is paler than the tone of any Bolian skin Meyer has previously set eyes upon, but he appears to have escaped any serious physical injury.

The other Bolian has materialised face down in a heap on the deck plates. There's a gash in his brown leather tunic from his right shoulder blade to the opposite hip. The skin beneath is broken but the cut is shallow with minimal bleeding. Meyer drops to his knees and proceeds to roll the limp body over. The long wound on this Bolian's back is but a scratch compared to those Meyer now discovers criss-crossing the man's chest and abdomen. There's thick blue blood seeping from the cuts across his chest and an oily black exudate oozes from the gut wounds. His digestive organs have been shredded. The sight is horrific and the odour … Meyer has never smelled anything so foul.

Unsurprisingly, the Bolian on the deck plates isn't breathing. Meyer checks for a carotid pulse and finds no trace of one – which is hardly unexpected given the blood loss the Bolian has obviously suffered, the rate of which has no doubt passed its maximum now that there's little left to be pumped from the severed arteries in his torso.

"Help me," Meyer calls to the other, conscious Bolian. "Quickly. Pass me the medkit that's mounted on that bulkhead."

The Bolian blinks and then takes a wobbly step in the direction that Meyer is pointing. The Bolian struggles to detach the kit from the wall, so Meyer rises to fetch it for himself, feeling, as he does so, the thrusters cede propulsion to the impulse engines. Moments later, there's a further shudder as the shuttle jumps to warp, freeing up Sahreen to join Meyer in the aft compartment. Sahreen takes one look at the motionless body on the floor and, atypically, mutters an expletive.

It's difficult to know where to start as far as first aid is concerned. To even attempt CPR seems ridiculous given the nature of the injuries suffered and their anatomical location. Meyer snaps open the medkit, finds a hypospray of tricordrazine, and presses it to a scrap of unscathed skin on the casualty's neck, careful to avoid contact with any of the man's leaking fluids. If anything can kickstart a Bolian heart, it's tricordrazine, the most potent cardiostimulant the Maquis can get their hands on.

"It's too late," Sahreen says, scanning the casualty with a medical tricorder. "He's beyond our help – even a qualified surgeon couldn't save him now."

And any rational person could see that. But Meyer doesn't feel particularly rational right now. He moves to administer another dose of medication, feels a restraining hand on his arm and shakes it off.

"We should focus our efforts elsewhere," Sahreen says gently, prompting Meyer to glance up towards the surviving Bolian who is staring wide-eyed at his ... friend? Colleague? Brother?

Sahreen stands and steps towards the man, asking him, "Are you injured?"

The Bolian doesn't answer. He just fingers a garish gold pendant that hangs around his neck and continues to stare down at his compatriot's broken body.

"What happened?" Meyer probes, mimicking Sahreen's gentle tone. The Bolian remains tight-lipped, but the answer is self-evident: an animal attack. The Cardassians didn't kill the unfortunate victim, though they are wholly responsible for his death. The local wildlife must have happened across the unfortunate victim as he fled through the trees. Perhaps it was the scent of fear that attracted them.

Sahreen pulls a thermal emergency blanket from the medkit, guides their mute survivor onto a fold down couch and lays the blanket around the Bolian's shoulders. "What's your name?" Sahreen asks, perching on the edge of the couch beside him. But the Bolian's only answer is to break into a fit of sobbing. Meyer retrieves a bottle of water from a supply chest, pops the lid, and hands it to the Bolian who accepts it with the faintest hint of a grateful smile. And then, as the Bolian gulps at the liquid, he starts crying again.

"What's our ETA?" Meyer asks Sahreen.

The other man looks at his wrist chrono. "Sixteen minutes. I've sent an encoded heads up to the _Val Jean_. She'll be ready to jump into the Badlands once we rendezvous."

And the shuttle will follow closely, receiving frequent course corrections from the bigger ship in order to avoid the plasma storms and various gravitational anomalies that make navigation of the region so treacherous. It will be then, docked in their safe haven, that Meyer will have to give Chakotay his mission report.

Sahreen gestures discreetly towards the dead Bolian on the floor. "I should get back up front. Maybe you could …"

Meyer nods, taking a second blanket from the medkit, unfolding it and draping it neatly over the body. This seems to calm the surviving Bolian somewhat. He places his empty drinking bottle on the floor and lies back on the couch, turning then onto his side and pulling his blanket up to his chin. A moment later, he closes his eyes, and his breathing begins to sound more normal.

Stripping off his uncomfortable outer garments, Meyer fetches some water for himself and sits down on top of a sack of rulot seed to drink deeply. The deck plates of the compartment are plastered with mud and with caustic Bolian body fluids. Some poor bastard will have one hell of a mess to clear up when the shuttle reaches its refuge. Meyer laughs bitterly at the irony. It's been a mess of a mission. Quite literally. But it isn't funny. It isn't funny at all.


	6. Chapter 6

In the _Val Jean_ 's tiny mess hall, Meyer sits alone and redundant. There's a large, half empty bottle of Scotch on the countertop in front of him, a full plastic shot glass in his hand. It had been Ayala's idea to open the bottle: not in celebration of a successful mission's end, but for the benefit of Chell, the surviving Bolian – for the Maquis to show solidarity and commiserate with him after the death of his friend, Drax. After the _Val Jean_ and Sahreen's shuttle had arrived at their current location – an L-class planet, known officially only by its numerical designation – the unfortunate Drax had been promptly laid to rest, buried according to an old Bolian custom under a conical cairn. Meyer can see the pile of rust-coloured pebbles and larger stones through the mess hall's only window. The _Val Jean_ sits on a stark rocky plateau, half a klick from the shielded complex of bunkers dug in beneath the permafrost. Chakotay was supposed to bring the ship down right on top of the base. It's the third time in as many weeks that he's botched a simple landing.

The rest of the crew have long since departed the brief wake in the mess hall, allocated duties in the subterranean base or elsewhere on the _Val Jean_ itself. Meyer has not been assigned to lead or even take part in a work detail. He's been left out of any planning meetings that might be in progress down in the bunker complex: deliberate slights by Chakotay, no doubt.

Already, the entire crew knows what happened on Anegria: that Meyer took out four Cardassians rather than just the one that he was authorised to kill, that one of those killed was Zarak's unarmed wife. That there were children not ten paces away from the primary target when Meyer pressed the trigger.

Opinion among the crew is divided. There are as many people offering Meyer praise as there are fielding looks of disapproval. Meyer doesn't believe either faction has it right: praise is not warranted, but neither is condemnation. Those people taking exception to his actions weren't there on the planet, watching the situation unfold. What right do they have to judge?

Predictably, Chakotay has not taken Meyer's mission report well. Despite Meyer's protestations that all four Cardassians he'd shot had posed an immediate threat to the two Bolians' lives, Chakotay was – and, twenty-four hours later, still is – both livid and horrified.

"So, are you saying you'd rather I'd let the spoonheads chase down those poor Bolians?" Meyer had asked him. "That I should have packed up my kit and left the scene, knowing what would happen to them?"

"For the greater good, yes," Chakotay had responded, ignoring Li Paz when the Bajoran spoke up in Meyer's defence, and glaring incredulously at Ayala when he too suggested that, in an impossible situation, Meyer had made a difficult but necessary call.

Ayala, at least, might have sided more with Chakotay had Meyer presented every detail. But Meyer had been economical with the truth, not mentioning the looks of pure terror he'd seen on the faces of the children and civilians nor the important fact that Zarak's teenage son had dropped the disruptor he'd been carrying _before_ Meyer fired at and narrowly missed his head. And Meyer had flat out lied, telling those present at the debrief that Zarak's wife's death was entirely accidental, that she'd moved behind Meyer's intended target just as Meyer was pulling the trigger. It's obvious that Chakotay doesn't believe this lie, but he hadn't openly accused Meyer of dishonesty before asking the three men gathered in his cabin to leave so that he could 'have some time to prepare a statement warning the other Maquis cell leaders that Cardassian reprisals will likely be both swift and severe'.

Sahreen had not observed any of the incident directly, so he can't confirm or deny Meyer's account of those significant moments. Chell was running for his life at the time: he'd heard screaming and cries of panic, but had not witnessed the events with his eyes. Only Meyer knows the truth of it and that's how things will stay. He can live with what he did. His conscience is not weighed down by guilt or by shame.

It was during the hazardous flight through the Badlands that Chell had broken his silence. He and Meyer had beamed across to the _Val Jean_ when the shuttle made its rendezvous. Sahreen had suggested that the continuing journey might be less traumatic for the Bolian if he were removed from the gory scene in the shuttle's aft compartment. So Ayala had joined Sahreen on the shuttle to assist him in guiding it around the deadly obstacles blighting the route to this Maquis base. Meyer and Chell had been taken to the _Val Jean_ 's tiny infirmary, both looked over by Ripley, a former Starfleet nurse and now the ship's de facto doctor. After a few hours of sleep, cleaned up and rehydrated, Chell had found his voice to thank Meyer for saving his life. With the colour returned to his skin and that glazed stare gone from his eyes, he'd recounted to Meyer the circumstances surrounding his incarceration.

To the best of Chell's knowledge there are no more of the original Anegrian colonists held as captives by the Cardassians. Five humans and eight Bajorans who'd refused to leave were shot dead in front of him on the day after the Cardassians took the colony. Chell and Drax had been forced to drag those thirteen bodies into the forest, dumping them there for the wildlife to dispose of. With that grim task completed, Chell and Drax had expected to be murdered as well. But one of the Cardassian insurgents – a particularly sadistic individual – had decided to keep the two Bolians around for his own amusement. A few weeks later, one of the other Cardassians had suggested that the Bolians might make a fitting gift for the soon to be visiting Gul. After that, though still held in chains, Chell and Drax had been properly fed, given clean clothing to wear and mattresses to sleep on. Drax had been the strong one. He'd convinced Chell that the Gul would likely take them back to Cardassia Prime as trophies to flaunt to his associate.

"He'll put us to work in his kitchen," Drax had said. "Everyone wants a Bolian chef these days. We'll be slaves, but at least we'll be alive. And if we're alive there's a chance we can be rescued or released."

Chell had been dubious at first. But, having washed out of catering school on Bolarus IX, the thought of finding himself in a kitchen again – even a Cardassian kitchen – had boosted his morale. He'd daydreamed about that hypothetical kitchen for day after day – about cooking such wonderful food for the Cardassian Gul that the Gul would not bring himself to execute the Bolians. And when Zarak had finally arrived, when the Bolians had been unshackled and told by the Gul to run into the Anegrian forest, Chell had been so confused that, initially, he'd been unable to move.

The more Meyer hears from Chell, the more satisfied he is that going off plan and attempting to save the Bolians was fully justified. Although he seems to be recovering remarkably rapidly, Chell will carry the memory of his ordeal forever, another victim of the repulsive Cardassians and their violent xenophobia. And Chell is one of the luckier ones.

Downing his whisky in one, Meyer crushes the empty plastic glass and tosses it into the recycler. He's hidden out in the otherwise empty mess hall for long enough, wishing – needing – to put some space between himself and his admirers as well as his critics. Thankfully, the cordafin comedown has been milder than expected this time – either that or the worst of the aftereffects are yet to come. Whatever the case, his mind is sharp, his body re-energised and he needs to find something useful to do – the next phase in his personal contribution to the ongoing war. If Chakotay chooses not to have a say in what that contribution should be, Meyer will happily use his initiative.


	7. Chapter 7

He finds his next task in the icy air outside where Torres is (unsuccessfully) attempting to lift a square metal plate that's propped up against a storage crate at the bottom end of the _Val Jean_ 's lowered cargo ramp. There is no one else in sight, but the intermittent whine of a drill can be heard coming from the inside of the Yridian shuttle parked ten metres or so upslope from the larger ship.

Zipping up his jacket and donning his thermal gloves, Meyer steps up closer to the young engineer. She curses, straightens, then kicks out at the metal with the toe of her booted right foot. Meyer is careful to ensure that she's aware of his presence before he asks, "Could you use another pair of hands?"

Torres nods and mutters, "Thanks," then indicates which side of the plate she'd prefer Meyer to grab a hold of. "I need it over there." She tilts her head to the right. "At the shuttle."

It's a large piece of metal, more like a slab than a plate, ten centimetres thick and well over a metre square. And it really is heavy – duranium, Meyer assumes. Despite the strength afforded by her Klingon genes, Torres would never have managed to carry it on her own. Meyer finds it somewhat odd that she's even deemed it sensible to try. A matter of pride, perhaps.

"Why don't you just transport it directly over there?" he queries, trying to determine the most practical way to carry the cumbersome load. Flat like a table top would seem to be most logical choice. There are no grooves or indentations by which to firmly grip it vertically.

"The transporter's down for routine maintenance," Torres explains, reaching down with her gloved left hand to grasp the bottom corner on her designated side, her right hand fixed around the corner presently uppermost. "Hogan's running a diagnostic on it. This can't wait."

Meyer mirrors her stance, grateful for the traction afforded by the rubber pads on the fingers of his own gloves. "Ready?"

"Ready."

They tilt and lift the duranium plate. Once it's balanced between them they start shuffling slowly sideways in the direction of the shuttle, the ramp beneath their feet giving way to the crunchy cold soil of the planetary surface.

"What's wrong with the shuttle?" Meyer asks. Its shields had held up well to the battering they'd taken in the skies above Anegria. But perhaps some kind of issue had developed on the shuttle's journey through the Badlands. It wouldn't be the first time a Maquis vessel had shown up at this base needing significant repairs.

Torres throws him a queasy look. "We need to replace a section of floor in the aft compartment. When Dalby and I finished…" She swallows hard. "…cleaning up in there, we noticed some corrosive damage to some of the deck plates."

Corrosive damage. So, Torres and Dalby had drawn the short straws. Meyer is a little surprised not to have been allocated to that clean-up crew himself. But then he's no engineer.

"It's actually hardly noticeable to the naked eye," she continues. "But, when I ran a metallurgical scan, I found deeper microfractures that could seriously screw up the artificial gravity if they started to expand."

This is the first opportunity Meyer has had to speak with Torres since returning from his mission. She'd been present at Drax's burial, but absent for the impromptu wake in the mess hall. While he couldn't care less what some of his shipmates think, Meyer is curious as to Torres's opinion on his actions. He wonders if, knowing what she does now, she still wishes she'd been allowed to tag along on the mission. He wonders how differently the mission might have gone if she had been there at his side.

"I'm sorry you had to deal with that," he says, unable to come up with anything better.

Torres doesn't respond, and they continue in silence, shuffling on for a dozen or so more steps before Meyer tells her, "I owe you a big thank you. Your thoron generators did indeed work like a dream."

Now a flicker of a smile brightens her face. "Sahreen brought the rig back to me. He said as much. I'm glad I could play my part."

Is that tacit approval for Meyer's actions? Or is she merely glad that he survived unscathed. Meyer doesn't ask, but he does go back to his earlier unvoiced question, "In hindsight … are you glad that you sat this one out?"

She ponders her reply as they cover the final few metres to the shuttle's rear hatch. Setting the duranium down, they both stretch out their overworked hands, arms and fingers. As her silence continues, Meyer starts to regret his enquiry. Torres is, after all, one of Chakotay's favourites, and that esteem flows strongly both ways. In addition she's ex-Starfleet. Whatever the circumstances of her leaving the Academy, she must have, until recently, shared Starfleet's idealistic view of the universe – a universe where justice should always be served in an unbiased law court, where retribution is passed over in favour of rehabilitation. Where no one is irredeemable, however horrendous their crimes.

Adjusting the hood of her parka, she leans back against the shuttle's hull and stares off towards the east where the rocks marking Drax's grave glow like hot coals under the fiery light of the rapidly setting sun. Her answer, when it comes, is a non-answer, but an informative one nevertheless. "Sooner or later, I'm going to see some real action," she says. "First-hand. Part of me just wants to get it over with."

It's a sentiment that, as much as it saddens him, Meyer can understand. And, as glad as he is to find that it's not youthful naivety nor some Klingon thirst for battle that's driving her wish to participate at the sharp end, there's a paradox: it also pains him to see how much that earlier held enthusiasm has diminished in just the space of a few days, dampened by what she's seen in the back of the shuttle. It hurts to see how just that peripheral contact with the consequences of Cardassian cruelty has changed her, has led her onto the first step of the one-way path that Meyer has already travelled.

With a final burst of effort, he helps her lug the duranium into the shuttle, deciding that, the next time Torres asks to participate in a frontline away mission, he will support her request. Because, as she's intimated herself, why delay the inevitable?

* * *

Endnote: Meyer and Sahreen are two of the holographic massacre victims from 5x03 "Extreme Risk".


End file.
